


John Watson's A Study In Pink

by CassandraD11who



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandraD11who/pseuds/CassandraD11who
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Study In Pink from the mind of John Watson. Critique accepted and encouraged!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> This begins at the start of the first Sherlock episode of Series 1, A Study in Pink.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter begins with the episode. Chapter 2 coming soon!

 

            Terror. Around me, within me, I can’t imagine a corner of the world that it hasn’t touched. To my left, screams, to my right, gunfire, but I have to focus on what is in front of me, a fellow soldier shot in the thigh. If I don’t stop the bleeding soon, I am sure he won’t make it. I search for the bullet with my fingers in the wound, it seems like my hand is four feet deep in muscle, cartilage, and blood before I find it. After removing it, I plunge my hand back into the gaping hole torn through his leg to find the artery responsible for spilling his irreplaceable blood onto the dusty dry soil below. My hands are still, calm, and work quickly despite the constant yells, shots, and explosions that surround me. I find the artery and squeeze trying to stop the bleeding, when I look to his face. Frozen. The terror of the world around us etched on his face, lifeless eyes forever glued to the sky as if he were looking to God for salvation. There is no time to grieve as I am pulled up from the ground and told to run. Explosions erupt behind us as I run as fast as I can while my comrades fall all around me. I know I cannot stop to help them even though I know I should. Just as I reach a hut I look around. Where had everyone gone? Am I the only one left? A shooting pain pierces my shoulder and resonates down my spine and through my entire body. I know what comes next, terror overcomes me pouring through me, filling every crack and crevice of my mind. My sight is gone, the terror controls every sense, even the pain... pain, sorrow, regret, anxiety, remorse, pain…

            My eyes flutter open as my body jolts up. The thought “ _Where am I?_ ” flashed in my mind for only a moment as I realize I am in my flat, in London, safe, alone. So why has the terror not gone? It still fills my heart, my mind, my breath. My lungs clench as my body falls back on the bed. I try to hold them in but my sobs escape. I couldn’t help my comrades then and I cannot help myself now.

            As the pain subsides, I can breathe again, move again. I sit up only to find that it is 4:30, much too early to get up, but I do anyways. I make my bed and am about to go brew a cup of tea, when I find myself sitting on the foot of the bed. Thoughts flood into my mind, but I have to block them. I cannot, will not, allow the war, the terror to rule over my life.

* * *

 

            Tea in hand, I head to my desk. Hesitantly I pull my laptop out of my drawer to reveal my handgun. It may seem odd, but knowing I have it makes me feel safe. Yes it reminds me of the terror, but I also know it can protect me from it. Logging on to my laptop I open the browser and open my blog. _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson._ Recommended by my therapist of course. Why a grown man would ever blog is beyond me. I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the webpage with the cursor blinking, waiting for me to type. Mocking me. A while later half because I was fed up with the empty page and half because I had my appointment, I shut my laptop put it back in the drawer and headed downstairs to get a cab.

* * *

 

            Therapy is to say the least pretentious. It hasn’t helped me one bit. It’s like she thinks she knows me which is impossible because I don’t even know myself. There is something missing from my life since the war, maybe it is family, friends, a decent job, but I am pretty sure it isn’t a blog. My thought process is halted when she asks the question I was anticipating, “So how’s your blog going?” I lie, say it’s good, but she can see through my lie, she then insists writing everything that happens to me will “help me adjust to civilian life.” My only reply to her analysis: “Nothing happens to me.” She continues to talk but I am no longer listening. It is true nothing happens. I wake up, have a cuppa, go out for a walk, eat, come home, and attempt to sleep. I think to myself, “ _Nothing happens to me. I am nothing_.”


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mike and Sherlock!

Life went on the same; boring, meaningless, and still a feeling of something missing, something wrong. I have tried to think of every possibility. Nothing has changed in my life, apart from the lack of gunfire and explosions, and I still walk, well limp, around with my past every day. I ponder other possibilities as I hobble through the park when I hear an unfamiliar sound, a voice, calling out my name. I turn to find a familiar, pudgy man trudging towards me. After he confirms he has caught my attention, he mutters, “Mike, Mike Stanford,” and the memories come rushing back. It was Mike Stanford, one of my classmates from Bart’s. We were friends, I mean I guess you would call us that. I never really made many friends at college, a deciding factor when enlisting to be an army doctor, but I always could rely on Mike. He had changed, obviously older and fatter, while also more mature but still retaining some of his childhood wit. He asks to buy me coffee and, of course, I accept. We begin to walk as we chat about our current situations. He continues to bring up parts of “the old John Watson.” Why can I not be as whole and stable as the old John Watson who went to the pub and failed a few tests? Who have I become? An empty shell that feels nothing but the terror of war and an emptiness that cannot seem to be filled.

            “I don’t know. You could get a flat share or something,” Mike suggests when I admit that I cannot afford to live in London.

            “Who’d want me as a flat mate?” is the only reply I could muster as I thought of my night terrors and distrust of others. Who would want John Watson, a war doctor that couldn’t even patch up a bullet wound in the leg, for a flat mate? My train of thought was interrupted by Mike’s laughter. I look up, confused and curious, and he admits, “You’re the second person that’s said that to me today.” I inquire further as to who else could share my self-loathing. Mike invites me to Bart’s to meet this stranger.

            In the cab, on the way to Bart’s, Mike made small talk, but honestly I was only curious about the man we are meeting. I attempted to ask Mike about him, but he dismissed my questions throwing ambiguous responses at me like, “You will just have to meet him” or “He cannot really be described.” How in the world did my life go from mind numbingly boredom to intrigue and excitement in one afternoon? First to run into an old classmate and now headed to meet a man with whom I could potentially live? To say the least, this better be worth it.

            After a painfully silent elevator ride, I follow Mike down a corridor to the lab. He opens the door, holding it for me as I walk past. “ _This is going to be painful”,_ the thought lingered in my head as I make my way past Mike into the unfamiliar laboratory, as it had been upgraded since I had last been here. “ _This will all be over soon and I will be back in my fla--”_ My was abruptly interrupted by the stranger.

            “Mike, can I borrow your phone?” he asks. His voice is deep and effortlessly smooth. His appearance is different as well. Slim, but fit. His hair draped over his forehead in thick, black curls. His face was defined, the most prominent feature; his cheekbones. Mike regretfully admits he did not have his phone and the stranger exasperatingly explains that he prefers to text so the landline is out of the question. Hesitantly, I offer my phone. The stranger seems so surprised by my offer, grateful, but as if no one has ever done him a kindness. Mike introduces me to him and I hand him my phone. He begins to text and nonchalantly asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

            Confusion floods my mind. How did this man know I was in the army? Did Mike tell him? I begin to ask but am interrupted by a woman in her late-twenties or early-thirties, entering the room with a coffee for the stranger. The stranger thanks the woman, Molly, for the coffee and he comments something about her lipstick. That’s strange. Are they dating? He doesn’t seem the dating type. But then why mention her lipstick? How did he know about Afghanistan?

            “How do you feel about the violin?” he interjects with yet another confusing question. At this point I have no idea what’s going on. He continues to ramble on about playing violin when he is thinking, being silent for days, us being potential flat mates? Mike must have told him about me, but when I turn to him, he claims to have said nothing. My mind is reeling and I don’t know if I am intrigued or intimidated. While the man casually throws on a long overcoat and wraps a scarf around his neck, he explains how he had told Mike how hard it would be to find him a flat mate this morning and, because Mike brought me, his old classmate, recently back from Afghanistan, to meet him, it is obvious sharing a flat is the reason I am here. I certainly didn’t see how it was obvious and I attempt to question him about Afghanistan again. He dismisses it to talk about a potential flat where we should meet at seven o’clock and finishes his statement by commenting about having to rush off because he left his riding crop in the mortuary. I am completely flabbergasted, bewildered, and uncomfortable. He talks so fast but with such purpose. Riding crop. Meeting. Flat mates. I break my speechless state to address how suddenly we are moving in together when we don’t know anything about each other. He doesn’t seem to consider this a problem. No wonder Mike thought it would be hard finding him a flat mate.

            He then proceeds to describe my life, in unbelievable detail. Army doctor. Afghanistan. My disapproval of my brother (well, sister, but close enough), Harry’s, alcoholism and divorce. Even my psychosomatic limp. My mind can barely keep up with what ia am hearing. This man knew everything about me in a matter of minutes. I am disturbed, intrigued, concerned, and offended, all at the same time. Who is this extraordinary stranger to whom I am not a stranger at all? He answers my thoughts as if he can hear them.

            “The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon,” and leaves with a wink, as quickly as I met him. Sherlock Holmes. I look to Mike. No wonder he couldn’t explain him.

            Sherlock Holmes seems wonderful, mysterious, threatening, intriguing, intelligent, and there is no way I would pass up meeting him again.


	3. The Unanswered

            Later that evening at my flat I check my messages.

            _If brother has green ladder arrest brother._

_SH_

Yet again another product of Sherlock Holmes that leaves my mind searching for answers. Where else is a better place to look for them than the internet? “S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k-H-o-l-m-e-s” The first link is to a blog. “ _Of course he blogs,_ ” I think as I skim through the site. _The Science of Deduction._ The bio reads:

I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. “ _Consulting detective?”_

I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please. _“He seems arrogant to say the least.”_

This is what I do:

1\. I observe everything.

2\. From what I observe, I deduce everything.

3\. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth. _“Well I think you are mad!”_

If you need assistance, contact me and we'll discuss its potential.

            I go on to read an extensive analysis of ash and other impossibly detailed and outrageous blog entries. These things don’t seem possible despite the evidence right in front of me. It is so detailed and derived from impossibly miniscule clues. It amazes me that someone could figure these things out. “ _He must be a genius_ ,” I say aloud in my head as I head toward my dresser to change for bed.

            Sleep came almost as difficultly now as it did yesterday, but for a different reason. Yesterday I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t want to relive the terror of Afghanistan, but tonight it is because my mind is too busy searching for answers about Sherlock Holmes. As my mind swam in the mystery that is Sherlock Holmes I must have drifted into sleep, because my eyes flash open to a room drenched in sunlight. I turn towards the clock that reads 10:00. Could I have really slept for so long? Where did my nightmares go? I sit up feeling refreshed and well-rested, something I haven’t been for a very long while.

            With the smell of a pot of tea brewing, I open my computer to find Sherlock’s blog still open in the browser. 7:00 I cannot forget. It is my only chance to find out who he is. Later I head out and after going to the shop to buy some essentials I have been needing for a few days, I return to the flat. The day is going by so quickly. It is already 5:00 and it feels like I only woke up an hour ago. Has time been going faster or have the unanswered questions about Mr. Holmes been occupying my mind so much that my perception of time is altered? As I look to the clock, it is nearing seven so I grab my coat and head downstairs to meet Sherlock Holmes at the flat.

            219. 221a. 221b. Finally. The walk was long and full of thoughts of unanswered questions, mostly about Sherlock Holmes. I don’t see him so I approach the door and use the knocker. With a startling hello I hear him behind me, the stranger who knows so much about me. I turn to see him paying a cab driver and greet him anxiously, “Mr. Holmes.”

            “Sherlock, please”, he replies. First name basis and I barely know anything about him. Not to make things awkward I comment on the location of the flat and that it may be too expensive. Sherlock admits that he knows the landlady and that she owes him a favor. Just as soon as the thought _“What for?”_ he answers how he helped when her husband was put under the death penalty in Florida. Knowing how serious crimes can be for the death penalty I am surprised, “Wait, you stopped her husband being executed?”

            “Oh no,” he corrects me, with a smirk, “I ensured it.”

Who is this man and how can I ever hope to understand him when he says things like this? Outrageous statement with no backstory or explanation. Had this man deserved to die? Was he truly guilty? These unanswered questions escape my mind when the landlady answers the door with a friendly welcome. Sherlock introduces her as Mrs. Hudson. Older woman, but not ancient, thin with short blond hair who seems so warm, caring, loving. How such an inviting, open person be associated with Sherlock Holmes? Will I ever really know the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes?


	4. The Beginning

            We make our way into 221b and Sherlock leads me up the stairs. As I reach the top Sherlock swings the door open revealing the flat. Looking around all I see are books piling off the shelves, overflowing boxes scattered throughout the room, and beakers and bottles on almost every flat surface. Nevertheless, underneath the clutter I see a home. I utter, “This could be very nice,” to which Sherlock agrees. I begin to express my concern for the mess when Sherlock blurts out that he has already moved in. The mess is his. Of course. I am saying something, but am distracted by Sherlock floating around the room putting papers on boxes, attempting to clean up. He passes over to the mantle where he thrusts a knife into the wood to hold papers there. My eyes wander over to a skull sitting in the raised end of the mantelpiece. “That’s a skull.” My statement seems so primitive after it has passed my lips, but Sherlock’s reply leaves me baffled.

            “Friend of mine,” and reviewing his thought he corrects himself, “Well when I say friend.” Is this man insane? I can understand journal writing or talking to a stuffed animal when you are 13 but a skull? My thought abruptly ends with Mrs. Hudson’s question as to if I like the flat. She continues to go on about another bedroom upstairs, “If you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

            “Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms,” I state a little more defensively than intended. Did she really think I was gay? “ _Wait is Sherlock gay?”_ I immediately dismiss the thought, not wanting to explore the possibility. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson comments on Sherlock’s mess as I didn’t want to be the one to tell him to clean it up. The kitchen table was overflowing with glass tubes, beakers, bottles, and instruments I can’t even name.

            I look to Sherlock, and as I find my mind wandering back to Mrs. Hudson’s question I instinctively blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind, “I looked you up on the internet last night.” Immediately after I say it I regret it. Now I look like a stalker. Sherlock responds as anyone would and asks if my search was successful. I comment that I found his blog and his entire attitude changes. He stands taller, and with a proud grin asks, “What did you think?” _“What do you think? It was a blog about different types of ash and stained with hubris.”_ My thought leaks through the expression on my face and Sherlock arrogant stature transforms and he appears genuinely insulted as if he could read my thought. I remark about the outrageousness of his claims. He replies, obviously offended, “I could read your military career in your face, and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits from your mobile phone.” I ask how and once again he blows me off. He owes me an explanation. Now I am the one that’s offended. He talks about my problems as if they are trivial facts typed up in a report. It isn’t fair that he knows so much about me, will I ever get to know him?

            Mrs. Hudson advises Sherlock about a string of three suicides, when Sherlock corrects her, “Four, there’s been a fourth.” I myself have read the newspaper article about these suicides. They seemed interesting but still just suicides. Sherlock’s face looks different, contemplating. His eyes are squinted while he looks out the window. “There’s something different this time,” he comments while turning to the door.

            After what sounds like an elephant trudging up the stairs, a familiar man appears rushing through the door to inform Sherlock about the suicide. He must have been a cop, wait no uniform. A detective? He is average height, with average hair, and an average age, probably late thirties, early forties. Nothing too special but he obviously knows Sherlock. After revealing the location of the suicide Sherlock arrogantly looks out the window deducing there must be something different for the detective to ask for his help.

            “You know how they never leave notes, well this one did.” Why would the detective be telling these details of a police investigation to Sherlock? A note? I must look brain dead as these questions swim through my mind. The detective asks Sherlock to come to the crime scene but Sherlock has a problem with a forensic analyst named Anderson. “ _Who is Anderson and what the bloody hell is going on?”_ I yell in my mind while Sherlock and the detective are babbling about an assistant and Sherlock’s mode of transportation. The detective leaves and moments after Sherlock’s entire attitude changes. He turns, a smile lights up, his face, while he literally jumps for joy. He looks like a child on Christmas who can’t contain his excitement. He reads my mind as he comments while giddily prancing through the room, “Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas.” Why would any man be so excited for a suicide? Is Sherlock Holmes a psychopath? He insists on Mrs. Hudson getting him food, despite her protests, and invites me to have a cup of tea. He leaves in a frenzy and the room creeps into silence, until it is interrupted by Mrs. Hudson’s remark about Sherlock’s mucking about, and how I am “the sitting down type”, like her husband.

“I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg,” she says politely.

            Within milliseconds my mind goes from the terror of war, the wound, the post-war anxiety, Sherlock’s insanity, his brilliance and beauty, and the frustration of not knowing anything, and out of nowhere my emotions boil over and before I could think to stop I yell, “DAMN MY LEG!” quickly I apologize and make an excuse, “sometimes this bloody thing,” as I smack my cane against my leg. She comments about her hip, while my mind wanders to the cuppa. “ _I haven’t eaten dinner,”_ as my stomach turns. “A cup of tea would be nice,” I say as I try to not sound too desperate. But after Mrs. Hudson firmly states that it is a onetime deal and that she is not my housekeeper, I blurt out, “A couple of biscuits too if you’ve got ‘em.”

            “Not your housekeeper,” she informs me as she leaves to brew the tea.

            I look down to the paper in my hands and see the story of the suicides on the front. I glance at the pictures and my eyes stop at a picture of the detective that just left. The caption reads, “DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation,” no wonder he seemed familiar I had seen him in the paper earlier today. “ _Detective Inspector Lestrade”_ I think aloud. I am startled by a cool voice, “You’re a doctor, actually you’re an army doctor.”

            “Yes,” I reply as I struggle to get up, curious as to why Sherlock hasn’t left yet.

            “Any good?”

            “Very good,” I reply as confidently as I can with a genius deducing my every move.

            “Seen a lot of injuries then violent deaths?”

            My mind flashes back to that day, the soldier who died because I couldn’t save him, the dozen or so soldiers shot down around me. I manage to let out a yes as my heart starts to pump faster. The hole within me widens as Sherlock comes closer, “A bit of trouble to I bet?”

            I affirm his question, hoping he cannot read my emotions, “Enough for a lifetime far too much.” But is that true? Maybe it has been so hard to block out the war because I am meant to accept it, embrace it.

            “Want to see some more?” Sherlock finally asks.

            I without hesitation, admitting what I have been trying to deny, reply, “Oh God yes.”

            I follow Sherlock immediately as he turns around. I think he might have known my true desire for the thrill of action. We fly down the stairs as I call out to Mrs. Hudson that I won’t be needing the cuppa she offered because I am going out. Mrs. Hudson questions our exit and Sherlock turns around with accomplishment on his face.

            “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s something fun going on!” Sherlock quickly explains as he embraces Mrs. Hudson. Like a mother she expresses her concern for Sherlock’s indecency but allows him to go along. Sherlock did sound indecent, almost insane. But how could I think him wrong when I feel the exact same? The excitement is bubbling within me.

            Sherlock struts towards the door explaining what I couldn’t, “Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”


End file.
